by Ron Kilber (rpknet@aztec.asu.edu)

Sunday, 6/22/97

Mesa, Arizona to Salina, Kansas

A nd so, here I am today, sitting in one of eight make-shift seats in the cargo hold of a WWII-era C-53 Gooney Bird, ready and about to depart for The Netherlands via the famed and notorious North Atlantic route. I'm feeling like George Plimpton, getting to experience something totally off limits to any average Joe. I gave up a lucrative, short-term business opportunity to be here, but who wouldn't? Just exactly when will there ever be another opportunity to relive the experience of those who ferried aircraft across the North Atlantic during World War II more than fifty years ago? It's not like I can catch tomorrow's flight if I miss this one. Is this a great time or what?

While packing my bags last night, the first thing I did was set my alarm for a time still dark and very early -- before the sun comes up. As it turned out, I didn't need the alarm at all, even though I wasn't in bed until after midnight. Just anticipating the excitement of this trip was enough to wake me spontaneously. What pilot, or anybody for that matter, would miss this chance, even if he was so sleepy that he didn't want to get out of bed?

After we say goodbye to a small crowd of well-wishers, friends and family members, we finally climb aboard and buckle up, except for Wes. He's still outside to observe each engine when the start switch is hit. Right away Steve and Bob get to work performing tasks on the cockpit checklist. There are switches and levers all around that need to be pre-set, and Bob's gloved hands are going everywhere -- left panel, right panel, engine controls, overhead panel, below the seat, beside the seat, on the floor, and even the storage compartment behind the copilot's chair.

Bob and Steve continue with the checklist until engine-start procedures are next in line, enunciating and confirming as they progress through the safety net.

"Area/fire guard, right."

"Checked."

"Right engine start select/boost pump."

"Set."

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven blades. Right engine magneto."

"On."

The engine springs to life so quickly that the throaty cylinder firings are not easily detectable.

"Right engine boost pump off."

"Checked."

"Wing flaps/hydraulic pressure, cycle."

"Checked."

"Right Generator."

"On."

The litany continues for the left engine, which springs to life as eagerly as the right, and then the left generator, too, is enabled and the start-selector switch is moved to the off position.

Of course, the engine cowl flaps are closed before starting the engines. This way, if there happens to be a fire, it can be contained within the cowling while an attempt is made to extinguish the flames.

Both engines are now running smoothly. However, had one of them backfired, procedures always call for an immediate engine shut-down and an investigation to determine the offending malfunction.

Wes fights the prop wash to climb inside and close the door behind him.

Indeed, this is an exciting day, not only for me, but for every member of the crew, and I suppose for many watching, too. I'm looking forward to the comradery that will result from participation in a mission like this one, which for me is about on the order of Charles Lindbergh's famed flight across the Atlantic.

When all systems are go, we get clearance from Falcon Tower to taxi to Runway 4-R (40 degrees on the compass, right runway). Although it's only 9 AM, it's already very warm in here, as the sun is shining and the temperature outside is 80 degrees, maybe more on the pavement. This looks indeed like it is going to be another usual day in the June desert -- furnace hot.

Before departure, both engines and systems must be tested. "Run-up" in a propeller-driven airplane with two 1200-horsepower power plants is an experience all its own. With both engines operating at a high power setting, the C-53 wobbles and shakes when the pitch is changed on the constant-speed propellers, and the violent motion feels like we are trying to go through a warp zone to emerge into another world. The propellers want to pull the ship forward, but the brakes are set and the C-53 won't budge, like a stubborn dog on a tugging leash. When Bob is satisfied that both engines are performing flawlessly, he cuts the throttles and taxis into a hold-short position on runway 4-R, safe from landing traffic while waiting for clearance from the control tower to take off .

When take-off clearance arrives from the controller, we taxi into position on the runway and immediately Bob applies full power. In an instant, we begin our take-off roll. Both engines, now developing 2,400 horsepower together, have no trouble accelerating to rotation speed, and right away we're airborne. The engines also have no trouble producing enough decibels to make earplugs a definite advantage. I'm already wearing mine.

It's 9:05 AM as we lift off from Falcon Field and beeline for Salina, Kansas in the heartland of the country. I'm looking out the right front window in the cabin. The Pratt and Whitney engine is in full view, and I can see that the cowling flaps are being adjusted from the cockpit in an effort to control cylinder temperatures.

The great-circle route to The Netherlands from Phoenix measures about 6,000 statute miles (10,000 kilometers). Along this route lies Denver, Nebraska's panhandle, my hometown of Aberdeen, South Dakota, the Boundary Water Canoe Area of Minnesota and Ontario, Hudson Bay, Labrador, Greenland, Scotland and finally The Netherlands.

Our great circle will include Salina, Kansas and Bangor, Maine. Both are a little out of the way, but we need to stop in Bangor to pick up some emergency equipment. That's where many over-the-pond aviators begin or end their North-Atlantic journey, as Bangor is an international staging and preparation center with many well-established businesses catering to every need and danger along the route. It's where you get long-range fuel tanks installed, if you need them, Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) over-weight permits, life rafts, life vests, cold-water wet suits, Emergency Locator Transmitters (ELTs) and a good night's rest before pushing on, or badly needed rest, if arriving. It's also where you deal with customs and immigration.

From Bangor, we'll push on to Canada's Goose Bay in Newfoundland (Labrador), which is the last fuel stop on the continent before crossing the North Atlantic Ocean for Narsarsuaq, Greenland. From there we move on to Reykjavik, Iceland; Prestwick, Scotland and finally Texel Island and Eindhoven, Holland.

No sooner are we in the air when I look out the window and see Bob Denny with his Beechcraft Baron. The seat belt sign is off (just kidding), so I unbuckle and get up from my seat to take a closer look from a better window. He and Lesa Colber are flying along for a little ways to take a few pictures. They will then have the film processed, scanned, and e-mailed to me by the time we arrive in Salina. I have a laptop computer with me, which I'm using to prepare a daily report to upload to my Internet server. That way, anyone tuned into the Internet can follow our progress. With luck, I'll be able to submit the first report after we land in Salina.

As I am writing this, Wes tells me that he just learned from the ground that Jan Driessen made a telephone call all the way from Holland to Falcon Field to wish all of us a good and safe flight. Mr. Driessen is plugged into the Internet, so he'll be able to track our progress with the updates that I intend to post each day, as will anyone who has access to the World Wide Web (WWW).

We're climbing through 9,500 feet now, and I can see the San Francisco Peaks more than 100 miles to the north through a little haze in the otherwise clear Arizona skies. The mountainous terrain below us is formidable, with no opportunity at all for landing in the event of mechanical failure. A forced landing around here would be extremely risky and very dangerous. If the crash wouldn't do us in, then the harsh, summer desert most certainly would.

At 9:25 AM, we're at 11,500 feet tracking a course of 50 degrees on the compass, and we're indicating 132 knots on the airspeed indicator. We have a pretty good tail wind according to our Global Positioning Sensor (GPS), which indicates 170 knots for our actual ground speed. The temperature inside is 75 degrees (F); outside it's 50 degrees. The tachometers are reading 2350 RPMs and the manifold pressure on each engine is 27 inches. With each revolution of the propellers, we travel about 6 feet forward, more with a tail wind.

We've been in the air about an hour now and already we are beginning to experience problems. Our number one communications radio just quit. The number two radio will get us into Salina, so we should be fine. The crew chief, Wes, notices a leak in the hydraulic oil reservoir, but says at the rate it's leaking, we'd have to fly around the world to lose all ten gallons. It's a good thing, too, because operating the landing gear on this bird is no cake walk, if you have to do it manually. I hope none of this is a harbinger of worse things to come.

The difference between manual gear operation on a C-53 and that of a small airplane is that on a single engine craft you might simply move a gear lever from one position to another, but on the C-53 you must pump a large, beefy three-foot-long arm 30 or 40 times to set or retract the landing gear. You have to yard on it pretty hard, too, for it isn't as easy as jacking up a car. I should know, because I'd already manually raised and lowered the gear a couple of weeks ago. During the month of June in Arizona, it goes without saying that you really work up a sweat raising or lowering the gear on an old war bird like this one. Luckily, this ship is equipped with a motor-driven, hydraulic pump, so we don't need to manually set the gear 20 or 30 times as we land and take off between here and The Netherlands. Lucky, too, that the leak in the hydraulic reservoir is only minor.

Two hours into the flight we are coming up on Taos, New Mexico, and there is forest below us everywhere and mountains in all directions. It's a bit bumpy, as we ride the westerly wind, which is forced upwards as it flows over the higher terrain and peaks. I'm wondering, as I look out the window at the vast expanse of this big country, how many people actually flew from coast to coast beginning in the thirties when air travel in an airplane like this one was pretty much the only way to go. At DC-3 speed, it had to take forever to go from L.A. to N.Y., and even longer when flying west into prevailing head winds. But it sure beat a week-long train ride.

AT 1:40 PM (Arizona time), we've already begun our descent into Salina. About 18 miles out, there's a lake with lots of boating activity this Sunday afternoon. As we get closer to the airport, from the left window I can see a huge grain elevator that is the biggest I've ever seen. It looks big enough to contain the crops from every farm to the horizon in every direction. I wouldn't want to be around here if that thing explodes.

When we are on our final leg to land, I'm concerned that we are moving far too fast to land safely, but at the last moment I realize that we are instead doing a high-speed fly-by for the obviously large crowd gathered to see the C-53. Soon we're on final again, however, this time our gear is down and locked, the green lights are on and we've got hydraulic pressure. Small parabolic mirrors have been installed on each wing, so I can actually see that the landing gear is down.

At 3:58 PM local time (1:58 Arizona Time) we finally touch down on runway 17 (170 degrees on the compass). The south winds are at 17 knots with scattered clouds all around. According to Bob, there's a crowd of 200 or more spectators waiting, never mind that's it's a very hot and muggy day.

When I finally step outside to stretch my legs, it isn't long before the crowd swarms the Skytrooper. The wind is blowing so hard and hot, my first question to a local is: "What time does the wind quit?" He says that this time of the year, when the wind comes out of the south like it is, it's liable to blow all night long.

It isn't long before there are spectators everywhere imaginable on the outside and the inside of the Skytrooper. If someone put up a ladder, they'd be on top of the wings, too.

After the spectators leave, we button things up on the airplane and call for the courtesy van from the local Holiday Inn. While waiting in the FBO office, a caged parrot throws insults at us, and when Don wants to play cutesy with it using his finger, we have to remind him that raptors routinely amputate appendages as effortlessly as we take a bite from a chocolate Easter bunny. Don, how is it you've made it to retirement so far with your life and all appendages intact?

After checking into the nearby Holiday Inn, we enjoy a much-needed dinner and some good conversation over beer about our experience and progress so far. It turns out that Don is the on-board raconteur, although I would have to sanitize his stories to let you in on them. When I ask if he has shared these stories with his wife, he says, "Oh, God no".

Even though we missed lunch today, my steak with all the trimmings fills me. I pass on the dessert, but no one else does. Even Bob, who has told me he always eats a skimpy breakfast and only soup for lunch, consumes a generous bowl of ice cream. When I rib him about his back-home diet and all the calories he's ingesting now, he facetiously says, "That's the way I eat when I'm at home...I'm not at home". Everyone laughs.

By 9 PM our dinners are out of the way. Bob wants to push off early in the morning, so everyone heads to their rooms to retire for the day. I'm not tired. Who would be now? It's only 7 PM in Arizona. I fire up the laptop and connect the modem to the telephone line, dial my Internet Service Provider (ISP), and learn that I have e-mail from Bob Denny, the pilot of the Baron who flew alongside of us today.

"Hi Ron! How was the flight today? We're all really jealous!!"

Denny says one or two of the pictures taken by Lesa came out okay. He also says he had the film processed, scanned and now the shots are available for me to download from his server. So I grab a shot of the crew and one air-to-air photo of the C-53, and post both to my own Internet site, together with today's progress report.

Even though it's only 9 PM Arizona time, it isn't long before I'm fast asleep.

Introduction
Day 1, Mesa, AZ to Salina, Kansas
Day 4, Stuck in Bangor, Maine
Day 7, Greenland to Iceland
Day 11, Iceland to Scotland

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